Shards of the Past
by lovely-logic
Summary: With snow came memories of the past—what was once their home, who they'd once loved. But Xavier's home filled a hole in their hearts, one that no desert or snow-topped cabin ever could. A winter-themed two shot.
1. Ghosts in the Halls

Ghosts in the Halls

The world outside Storm's window was stark. Everything—from the squat green shrubs, to the stone benches—was a blinding white. Flake after relentless flake fell, settling on whatever it could find. It was a perfect winter morning, solemn and grey and plain_. _She imagined the awe the little children would feel when they saw mound after mound of snow in their yards. _"Whimsical," _they called it; _"A regular miracle,_" they'd say.

To her, it was just atmospheric water vapor frozen into ice crystals. No angel tears, no magic fairy dust.

Still, she didn't complain. After all, Xavier had personally asked her for a blizzard today.

"_Before the younger ones wake up,"_ he said, in that perfectly calm voice and winsome smile—she couldn't say no to that; she already owed him so much. The least she could do was make a few ice cubes fall from the sky.

So she woke up at four and summoned the snow.

At four thirty, she sequestered herself in second floor study with a cup of hot tea. It was days like this that made her miss T'Challa and Ainet and the Serengeti. Gold sun hugged the red earth there, bringing heat from the soles of her feet to her heart. On days when it was too hot, she and Ainet used to make cold lime dawa and share it with the local kids. But here there was no monsoon season, no cool water to quench the parched earth.

"Ndiyo, ni baridi sana nje," she snorted. _It's too cold outside._

"What?" laughed a familiar voice; Storm smirked. Gentle yet fiery, it reminded her of the sun. _Well of course it does. She's the damn Phoenix._

"Good morning to you too, Jean. Nothing, I just said it's freezing."

"But it's so beautiful, Oro," murmured Jean, using Storm's nickname. She stared out at the blanket of powdery white snow. "Thank you."

Storm was tucked into the corners of a leather couch, an ancient copy of _Paradise Lost _in hand. Looking up, she replied with a curious smile. "I didn't do anything."

"Come on, you can't fool me," said Jean with a quirked brow; Storm's grin widened. "The forecast was sunny through next week. I know Charles asked you to make it snow."

"Okay, so maybe he _suggested _that it should snow today. But in either case, you're welcome." Storm glanced shortly at the flakes—they had begun to pile on the windowpane. A quiet sigh left her lips, and she snuggled deeper into the couch, drawing her large red blanket around her. Her azure eyes devoured the words, and she attempted to engross herself in the story. Kicking her feet to the side, she lost herself in the cushions.

But her attempts failed—Jean was still there, and what's more, she had taken a seat in a nearby chair. The redhead stared at Storm intently, knowing in her eyes.

"You spoke Swahili again. You only do that when you're upset," stated Jean matter-of-factly.

Storm ran a hand through her white hair. There was no use hiding from Jean. Although she never used her powers on friends, Storm could use someone to talk to.

_She always has a way of working things out._

"I—" she faltered, but gathered her thoughts. "I just miss the Serengeti sometimes…and T'Challa. Call it homesickness, I guess."

"Is that all?" asked Jean, relief in her words. "I thought it was something much worse. Oro, we all go through the same thing. Me, Scott, Anna—even Logan in his own weird way. All of us feel nostalgic around the holidays. This time of year makes me miss my dad and his world famous Rudolph pancakes; it makes me miss my mom's gift wrapping lessons. But when I look at what I have here, all the friends I've made, it reminds me to be grateful. Xavier's worked so hard to make this place home for us, and I wouldn't give it up for the world."

Storm was silent; she knew Jean was right. God knows she missed Africa, more than she normally allowed herself to. Yet there was so much here to be grateful for. Wordlessly, she counted her blessings.

_I'm not alone. _That was probably the largest. The School for Gifted Youngsters gave her a community of people just like her—a gift that couldn't be measured in ribbons or wrapping paper or candy canes. It gave her pride in her gift. She no longer had to apologize for her snow white hair or explain her bright blue eyes to the children with brown eyes and black hair. Here, there were children that could walk through walls, men who could use their eyes as laser beams, and a phoenix. Dysfunctional at times, utopian at others, she had to admit—this was her home now. Even T'Challa agreed.

"_I will be with you always," he said, wiping a thumb across her wet cheek. She tried her best not to cry, but a stubborn tear slid down her face anyway. "But we must follow our own paths. Yours is with them.'" _

So she left. And in doing so, she discovered a place where she was wanted. Ainet had taught her well, and Storm knew there was nothing left but old memories in the dusty flatlands.

"I wouldn't either," stated Storm after a while. Jean smiled and stood, satisfied with her speech.

"Glad to hear it, because I wouldn't want to lose such a good friend," replied Jean. She took Storm's book from her lap and offered her a hand. Storm gave it a curious glance. "Now come with me, I'll teach you how to make my dad's Christmas pancakes. I think everyone could use a sweet breakfast."

"Even Logan?" chuckled Storm, folding up the blanket and giving Jean a grateful hug.

"Even Logan."

With that, the two padded out of the room and down the stairs, chattering about their past winters. As she spoke about the hot Serengeti and listened to Jean describe algid New York, Storm felt the loneliness vanish from her chest. Speaking about her past kept the good memories alive.

The staircase window had begun to fill with snow, and a smile parted her lips.

_Maybe it's fairy dust after all._


	2. Whispers in the Wind

Whispers in the Wind

"Enough with the damn Christmas music," muttered Logan, scratching at the coarse stubble on his chin. He hadn't gotten any sleep, and what's more, he had a blaring headache. _I gotta lay off the whiskey. It's killing me. _A bitter laugh choked his throat. Wasn't that a joke? Nothing could kill him—not even adamantium bonded to his skull. He stared out at the first floor living room through narrowed slits.

Everything was so festive, so jovial, so…_cheery_; it grated his nerves. Streams of green garland were strung around the fireplace and a twenty foot evergreen dominated the room, adorned in a potpourri of vibrant ornaments. He glared at one that caught his eye—a tiny fox, with a brown tail and silly purple eyes.

"Shit!" He'd promised himself not to think of her; it'd worked for over a hundred and eleven years. He'd avoided everything they shared—the cabin in Canada, the forest—he left all of it behind, burned any memories of their nights together. But the holidays were hard. Silver always loved Christmas time.

_The snow formed small mountains outside their window. It was frigid outside their cabin, but their four walls were warm, complete with dancing shadows from their orange hearth fire. _

"_Reminds me of my mother," she'd say, laying hot kisses on his neck. Nestled against him, she turned over and asked him a question. "What's the best thing you've ever gotten for Christmas?"_

_He'd found his answer. Long brown hair and glittering green eyes—she'd been his present for the last five years. Sure, her obsession with the holidays meant that he had to search for the perfect evergreen and buy dreadful fruitcakes from the general store. But that was half the fun; watching her face light in joy was the other._

"_You." _

Nearly a century since he felt her on his skin, since she called him hers. A hundred years, and a stupid _ornament _brought it all back.

_A porcelain fox!_

His fellow mutants were chattering happily, food and drink in hand. And here he was, brooding because of an ornament?

_The hell I am._ Snarling, he yielded to his stomach's gnawing hunger and stalked to the dining room, ignoring any question thrown his way. Scott tried to talk to him, and Emma rose from her seat next to Bobby; he stopped them both with a glare. _Not today. _Today, he'd try to forget her face, erase the taste of her tongue with something stronger.

Surprised, he found Ororo and Jean in the kitchen, churning out stacks of pancakes that smelled of vanilla.

"Morning, Logan," greeted Oro with a soft smirk. She handed him a stack of reindeer pancakes. He eyed her strangely, but took the plate from her hands. Oro always made it clear that she didn't believe in Christmas. Yet, here she was serving up a warm set of flapjacks with strawberry reindeer.

"You've never been a holiday girl…" he said suspiciously, mouth packed with a forkful of fruit; Storm shrugged.

"Jean talked me into making pancakes," she said, winking. "Hell, Charles even convinced me to make it snow. Don't look now, but I this whole Saturnalia festival's growing on me."

"How wonderful," quipped Logan, reaching for something to drink; there was nothing on the counter besides coffee and eggnog. That simply wouldn't work. "Do you have anything _stronger_ than coffee?"

Oro took one look at his face and understood, worry knitting her brow. Quietly, she slipped from the kitchen and he anxiously drummed his fingers against the table.

"_That's so sweet," said Silver, running a smooth hand over his chest—the hairs on his arms rose, and his nostrils flared._The memory surged in his veins, threatening to break free. The pain was akin to the first time he used his claws—barbed, sudden, pointed. _Come on, come on…_

After what felt like eternity, Oro returned with a nip of rum. It wasn't his first choice, but he'd take it.

"Here you go." She poured the amber liquor into a nearby glass of eggnog. "What's wrong? You're grumpier than normal, and that's saying a lot."

"Nothing." There was such finality in the word that Oro didn't dare question it.

"If you need anything, let me know." She gave his hand a squeeze and left to get breakfast for Kitty Pryde.

Logan drank, and the rum did its job. _Very_ slowly, Silver's voice quieted, dropping from a deafening roar to a persistent murmur. He heaved a sigh of relief, but heaviness weighed on his heart. Distracted, he failed to sense the heat of Anna's brown eyes on his back. So when she placed a leather-gloved hand on his shoulder, he jumped, instinctively seizing her wrist and baring his metal talons. Realizing it was only Rogue, he dropped her arm and fixed her with an irritated glare.

"What do you want, kid?" growled Logan, sighing in exasperation when she sat beside him.

"Just making sure you're okay," replied Rogue, brushing a white lock of hair from her eye. "You look like hell."

Her blunt answer made him smile. She never minced words with him, never sugarcoated what she wanted to say. Then again, why should she? Logan wasn't one for skirting around an issue, and Rogue was often too annoyed with him to use tact.

"And here I thought I looked as good as little Bobby over there." He looked at her. With a pouty frown and concerned brown eyes, a pang of guilt struck him—he was the cause.

"Logan," she sighed, rolling her eyes; he snorted. "I know there's something wrong. Now either you tell me, or I have the Professor read your mind."

"I'm sure Wheels already does," stated Logan, trying to avoid the topic, but to no avail. Rogue's perturbed scowl shut him up; she refused to move until he told her. _I don't have to mention everything…_ he reasoned. Just enough to undo the damage of Silver's ghosting touch.

"Seriously?" started Rogue, now genuinely angry. "I tell you anything that bothers me and you—"

"Enough, kid," sighed Logan, trying to find words for his thoughts. "If you must know, I'm a little tired. I used to spend Christmas in the mountains—snow as far as the eye could see."

There was more sentiment in his words than he intended, and Rogue detected it. She gave him a sympathetic smile and pat his back. "A woman, huh?"

_How the hell does she know? _"Yeah…she was."

There was silence after that. No further question, no prodding for answers—she understood, and that was enough. That was what made it so easy for them. He felt no pressure to explain himself like he did with Oro or Jean or Professor X. Rogue simply got it. Silent, she draped her arms across his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek, the red of her lipstick leaving a mark. He pretended to be annoyed, but the slight nuzzle back said otherwise.

"Lipstick?" he asked incredulously, swiping a finger across his cheek. "You never wear makeup…"

"Yeah, well I figured it's a special day. Tis' the season, right?" The glint in her eye stirred happiness in his chest. Rogue took his hand, running a thumb across the blades under his skin. Grinning mischievously, she tugged, ignoring the confusion on his face.

"Where are we going?" He was curious to see what she'd do next.

"You're coming with me." She gave him nothing else.

"Why would you want me? I'm not nearly as dreamy as _Bobby_."

"It's too nice of a day to spend alone, and you're too intolerable for anyone else. Besides, I think you'd look cute in a little Santa hat." Sheepishly she added, "Hell, you look cute in just about anything…"

"Rogue," he warned, hearing the soft snickers from the nearby mutants.

"Merry Christmas," she whispered, kissing the skin beneath his ear and squeezing his side. He rolled his eyes but hugged back, walking to the table and giving a gruff greeting to Emma and her group. Maybe he'd never feel Silver's warm hands again, or see her face light up at the sight of another horrid fruitcake. But what he lost in her, he gained in Rogue. Docile yet dangerous, _and_ she could tolerate him?

_Deck the damn halls._

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**A/N: **For the Reviews Lounge, Too 2012 Gift Fic Exchange. This is for the talented _**persevera**_. Hope you enjoyed it! :)_  
_

~L.L.


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